It’s not a real party until some guy from Belfast throws up on your neighbour’s patio.

I turned 33 this weekend (technically today) and a small party was held in honour of my Christ year. It also served as a bit of a housewarming. A few friends dropped by for drinks and snacks afterward, we hit the pubs. And because somebody loves me and understands my obsessions, she got me this.

We went to the Old Dublin first, met up with some folks. Tagging along with us was Seamus, a cousin of a friend, who was visiting from Belfast, Northern Ireland. At least that’s what he said. Most of the night, he sounded a lot like Brad Pitt in Snatch. After a few drinks he started to make a little more sense (although oddly, he noted that my Saint John accent made me sound like I was from Northern Ireland). He was staying in Pointe Claire so I offered that he crash at our place to save him money on cab fare and I would drive him home in the morning.

After deciding the Old Dublin was too quiet (I like the place but honestly, that musical duo that performs there has to go) we went to Hurley’s and then, I think, Brutopia. We came home and Seamus and I stepped out on the balcony for a smoke. He quietly asked me if he could have a glass of milk. Without thinking what that meant, I went to retrieve it and returned to find Seamus wretching over the side of the rail, depositing the contents of his stomach (2-Pour-1 Pizza, Jameson’s Whiskey, cidar, several pints, President’s Choice Lousiana Style Chicken Wings, and Spanakopita) three stories down and onto the neighbour’s patio. That’s it. Time for bed.

I awoke the next morning and surveyed the damage. It was indeed all over the place. You didn’t need the gang from C.S.I. to determine that his lunch dropped from from a height of three stories, given the overall splatter effect. So what did I do? I made him french toast for breakfast. Driving him home, I gave him hell, in my tired, hungover way.

“Why didn’t you use the bathroom?”

“I didn’t want to make a mess in there.”

“So this is better?”

I spent the rest of the day, tired, hungover and mortified that our neighbour was going to go apeshit on us. Kerry left her a note as she wasn’t in. When she came home later in the day, we both went down to offer apologies and a bottle of wine. She laughed it off and said these things happen and actually thought it was her roommate until she read our note. Still, we were both embarassed that it happened but I think we dealt with it as well as one can in these circumstances. Does Emily Post have advice for this sort of thing?

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